No Rest for the Wicked

7. Family

“Awa is an interesting woman,” I countered. “It’s not every day you get to talk to someone who’s lived that sort of life. Hell, even if it’s making me think that the Doakes family tree is made up of special-ops, you can’t say that you’ve met anyone like that?”

“First,” Deb said with an edge to her tone that I’d learned to fear, “there’s at least one bank employee in that goddamned tree. And second,” she continued angrily, “you are not going down that road again. You’ve already had to fight off one evil bitch this summer. If you keep thinking with your dick, Rita’s not going to take you back again.”

Confusion. There was a reference to Lila, as far as I could tell, but the similarities between Awa and Lila weren’t exactly plentiful in number; different hair colour, eye colour, different nationality, though both of them were attractive by far. And the greatest difference; Awa was happily married. “Deb, what the fuck are you talking about?” I laughed, “Awa is married and I’m…”

I’m what? Preparing to raise the possibly sociopathic son of my girlfriend? No that won’t work.

“I’m…”

“You’re… what!?” Deb asked, once again astounding me with the way she could apparently flick some mental switch and go from frothing around the mouth to excited interest. I didn’t no what to answer, stumped for answers for one of the few times in my life. “Well… Rita and I… and the kids are doing well. Cody really seems to have opened up… and I…”
I what!?

“Oh my god,” Deb said, triggering a frown from me. What had she just realized? Had I let my mask slip a moment? I had been off my game for a while now. Maybe this was the next step in a recently fast-growing list of failures from my side. “Oh! My! God!”

What? What was I missing? Deb looked pleased for some reason, but still punched me in the arm, momentarily bringing me out of focus. Doakes would’ve probably scowled to know that Deb’s punches hurt every bit as much as was to be expected from someone who spent most of her time training. “Dex? Are you planning to propose to Rita? When were you gonna tell me?”

Propose? I would’ve distinctly remembered if I had used that word; marriage, engagement, propose, fiancée and similar words, that weren’t part of my active vocabulary. “Deb…” I said, hesitant and honestly wishing I had just told LaGuerta no and stayed at home. If I hadn’t met Awa, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. “I… don’t know wh–”

“Hey, Dex,” Deb said and in an uncharacteristic display of affection, she placed a hand on my arm, as if to reassure me, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone until you’re ready.”

I must’ve mumbled some sort of agreement, because somehow she had now moved several meters away from me and was seemingly talking to herself. “I knew you and Rita were getting more serious. Ever since that whole Lila-disaster you and Rita have been closer than ever!” She sounded like a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, complete with the lack of even short-term memory that would’ve reminded her that moments earlier she was threatening that Rita would break up with me for finding another person interesting.

“Deb, before your head explodes, there’s one thing…”

“Anything.”

“Can I have my car keys back? I’m picking up Cody.”

She threw them as one would a baseball towards the batter; hard. They hit me in the chest and I was slightly disappointed in myself in not having caught them.

I left her standing there; excited, as though she were getting married. People were so irrational, at times.

Cody, ever the quiet, obedient and inconspicuous child had a shadow side; Jung would’ve been so proud. While his teachers at school had confessed that they suspected he was being bullied, despite never having caught anyone doing it, perhaps it was that the rumour of his true colours that kept people from trying.

I parked the car next to the white building – a youth centre of some sort, I’d never bothered to find out what it was called – that served as a karate dojo for children at certain times a day. Their sensei, a man in his mid-twenties, was called Peter Marshal.

Peter wasn’t the ideal role model for the kids, I’ll admit. The tattoos on the inside of his lower arms were made with ballpoint ink – indicative of having served time in prison – and his knuckles were scarred, but when you talked to him you’d never know it. He was a parole board’s dream.

When I entered, I caught his eye and received an acknowledging smile, but he didn’t speak. Instead he continued to walk amongst the kids, currently mid-way through the Fukyugata-kata, occasionally correcting a movement or two.

I noticed with paternal pride, that Cody moved in perfect unison with his fellow students and needn’t be corrected. Cody’s eyes didn’t see me, even when they looked in my direction; they were in a whole other world, where he was fighting invisible opponents.

I remembered that feeling. The liberation of striking an opponent – even an imaginary one – without holding back helped one relieve tension, if you gave yourself to it entirely.

The kata finished. Peter gestured towards the banner on the wall, a multi-coloured circle encircled with seven Japanese kanji, prompting the kids to form three rows before the banner as he moved to stand at the front of the rows. It looked like a miniature army. A miniature army in white pyjamas.

After a few ritualistic phrases – uttered in almost perfect unison by the two-dozen voices – the kids turned and began making their way towards their proud parents at the edge of the room. When Cody saw me his face lit up. “Dexter!”

“Hey, little buddy.”

“Why’re you here?” He asked with a curiosity you only saw in small kids.

“Your mom told me I could pick you up after training,” I said and winked conspiratorially, “Sometimes we guys need a break, don’t we?”

Cody nodded solemnly.

The bullet exploded out of the barrel, making its way towards a target that wouldn’t hear the sound until too late. The deer made a feeble attempt at running, despite the shot, but its legs failed. It collapsed into an undignified pile far away. I lowered the rifle and asked the boy at my side if he wanted to finish it off. He looked hungrily at the rifle and nodded, biting his lower lip. I told him no, that he’d have to use the dagger.

No need to waste bullets on an almost-dead animal, now was there?

I watched how the boy approached the task confidently and wanted to applaud him for how he held the knife; not too tight and not too loose. He would be able to chop, slash and thrust without shifting his grip, though his current cutting would be most important.

It was bloody, messy work. Usually was, especially with a beginner. By the time he was done, I was happy that I’d insisted that he wear an old t-shirt and jeans with holes in them – normally reserved for painting – because it looked as though someone had done a finger-painting on him. The smile on his face, though, was undoubtedly excited and it was with silent discontent that he gave the knife back to me.

I had to, really. He needed to learn not to play too much or too long with his meat. Otherwise he’d go hungry.

It was time to talk.

Why a father-son talk ideally had to be based around a sport-like activity and performed without looking directly at each other is something I’ve never quite understood. I sat him down on a tree-stump, balanced the rifle against it – unloaded, of course, no need for any accidents – and crouched down in front of him. I thought of what to say, then decided that there wasn’t really much more to say than what Harry had once asked me. “You’re different, aren’t you Cody?”

His childish voice answered hesitantly, “Like how, Dexter?”

“You liked killing that deer, didn’t you?” I prodded.

Cody squirmed, “Well… I didn–”

“Cody, it’s okay,” I assured him, “just tell me how you felt. I promise I won’t be mad, no matter what you say.”

“Well… it was…” he began, then frowned, struggling with the vocabulary of a child describing things even adults have problems explaining, “fun? Only…”

“You were excited? Felt like you could do anything?”

“Yes,” Cody confirmed, somewhat uncertain.

“Cody, don’t worry. You and I both like stuff like that. Killing, that is,” I said, studying the childish features for sign of shock and was both pleased and disturbed to find none. I didn’t have the heart to tell Cody exactly what I was yet, so I again turned to Harry. “It’s okay, Cody. You can’t help what happened to you, but you can try to make the best of it. Try to use it for good.”

“Like how?” Cody asked, the moral implications apparently lost on him, but too polite or too eager to care.

“Son,” I said, the word fitting fairly well. Still, it didn’t feel natural. I probably wouldn’t use that word again for a long time. “There are some really bad people out there. And the police can’t catch them all.”

“Bad guys?”

“Bad guys.” I confirmed. “People who deserve-.” Realizing how I was getting carried away, I added, “When you’re ready, that is. When you’re older, have learned more. Until then, it’s animals.”

While he did look a bit disappointed at the last part, I could see in his eyes an expectant glee: “When?” he demanded to know. Surprised, I answered with a vague: “Soon.”

“And don’t tell your mother, okay?”

Author Note: I'd like to thank Savaial for beta'ing my chapters once more, especially this one considering that she was unable to use one hand. Thanks for the dedication, Savial!

And thanks for reading everybody!